


Oh, love, you make me burn

by waltswhits



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, found this in my drafts and rewrote it ur welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltswhits/pseuds/waltswhits
Summary: "Grantaire found the face that matched the commanding voice at last. He found himself utterly dumbstruck, caught staring without a drink or an excuse. The man was captivating- with a face that rivaled David, curls that glew gold in the low light, eyes of a pure blue that searched Grantaire's soul. He looked at Grantaire in silence as another man spoke in a feeble response, an unreadable but intense look on his face. He felt he had no choice but to match his gaze, as if looking away was a mortal sin."





	Oh, love, you make me burn

**Author's Note:**

> well every night I burn, just like a heretic,  
> and take my turn among the lunatics.  
> baby won't you make a believer out of me?  
> i've been in the dark for so long that i can't see.  
> \- i've been blind, the fratellis

During his darkest periods, Grantaire was most often alone. He sat in his flat grasping for inspiration, staring at a glaringly white canvas. He wandered alleys with no aim or direction. He sat in bars, nursing a glass and an idea.  


Usually he waited these days out until his drive revived itself. Yet today marked three weeks without even a layer of umber on a single canvas.

Grantaire spun a stylus with his thumb and forefinger while the bartender refilled his glass. Conversations filtered in and out of his perception, snatches of arguments, of declarations, of admissions.  


"I told you she would leave you."  


"....I'm telling you, you have to go to Durand's and have their veal. There's nothing like..."  


"him, that's all I can think about these days..."  


The voices passed with a dull murmur in his head, so easily forgotten, one into the next.  


"You can't sit here doing nothing and still tell me that you care half a whit about what's happening in the parlements! Have you any pride in your rights, your beliefs, your morals?"  


One voice rang above the rest with stunning clarity. In an instant Grantaire felt more sober than he had in days.  


He turned in his chair, searching for the voice, letting his pen drop on the table with a dull thump.  


"Every week we meet and discuss what needs to be done. What good is discussing when we should be acting?"

Grantaire found the face that matched the commanding voice at last. He found himself utterly dumbstruck, caught staring without a drink or an excuse. The man was captivating- with a face that rivaled David, curls that glew gold in the low light, eyes of a pure blue that searched Grantaire's soul. He looked at Grantaire in silence as another man spoke in a feeble response, an unreadable but intense look on his face. He felt he had no choice but to match his gaze, as if looking away was a mortal sin.  


Grantaire maintained the eye contact, dumbstruck by the attentions of that man, gazing on as a painting composed itself within his mind’s eye. He was a born artist’s muse.

The man stood over a table of young men in the corner of the café, all around Grantaire’s age, all dressed in the fashion of the young intellectuals, who lived their lives for passion, music, drink, opinion, and little else. It was a political group, by Grantaire’s estimation. The golden haired man finally raised an eyebrow at Grantaire, letting an inch of smile escape from his marble lips. As if that was enough of an invitation, he then looked away, reentering the conversation of his company. 

Grantaire drew in a shallow breath. Did he dare go over there, and risk being made into a fool? He thought not, and took a deep sip of his drink. Yet, if he did not, would he miss the chance to paint the subject of a lifetime? He finished the glass and waved for another while he weighed the choice.  


Yes, he thought as he snatched his bag and pen, then the glass newly full, he did dare.

Grantaire approached the table of strange men with hesitating steps and wide eyes, wondering what they would think of his bold intrusion.  


As he began to fear the worst, the man who had began it all, who to Grantaire’s new closer view seemed to carry a halo around on his well-appointed head, smiled at his appearance.  


“Greetings, stranger. Come to join us?” He spoke in gilded, firm tones.  


Grantaire merely nodded.  


A red haired figure to his right smiled gently and pulled out a chair, which Grantaire sat in, his remaining reluctance reduced to whispers instead of shouts.  


The conversation carried on, the man, who Grantaire had heard addressed as Enjolras (a name more than suitable, though not nearly as celestial as he had imagined), now spoke on the recent revolts that had occurred in the city’s outskirts. This, reportedly, was good, but not enough to make a real difference.

Grantaire listened intently, yet remained silent, and slowly drank. He caught the searching, pleading, scorching gaze of Enjolras a few times more, and thought that he understood now the feeling of being a heretic on a spike consumed by flame, and that it might be a price worth paying if it was that man’s passion that set him aflame. He then looked away, thinking his sentiment a little too keen, and remembered his pen.  


He began to draw the cuff of a man seated across from him, needing the outlet but not the shame of being caught drawing the one subject he wanted most to capture. Grantaire lost himself in detailing rows of buttons, caches of lone noses, and a sea of hopefully innocuous disembodied curls.

Suddenly, the meeting had finished. Enjolras finally sat in his chair, which had been empty as long as Grantaire had observed him, and the group began to make their excuses and goodbyes. Grantaire quickly snatched up the papers he had filled and shoved them into his satchel, still unsure what exactly he had witnessed. A hand on his shoulder startled Grantaire. He turned to face Enjolras, and was aflame. 

"What did you think of today's meeting?" He asked softly.  


Grantaire grasped for the proper, polite, unrevealing words. "I enjoyed it very much. You and your friends, you do this often?"  


Enjolras nodded. "We call ourselves les Amis, de L'ABC. You are welcome to join us, we meet here most Wednesday and Saturday evenings."  


Grantaire allowed himself a smile. “I believe I might. Join you.” He quickly inhaled. “When I am able, of course.”  


“Of course.” Enjolras repeated. “I hope I will see you at another meeting, ah..” he trailed off in question.  


“Grantaire.” He supplied his name, in a gasp.  


Enjolras smiled, this smile not a whisper but a song, and Grantaire could not help himself but to smile in return. Their eyes locked, and lingered, but Enjolras’ attention was called away a moment later by the watery eyed boy that Grantaire had gathered was named Marius, and Enjolras waved a small goodbye.  


Grantaire slung his bag over his shoulder, downed his drink, and left the restaurant without another word.

He hummed, strolling down the boulevard on his familiar trip home, taking his time as he composed an image in his mind. He had found his inspiration.  


Entering his flat, he dropped all his belongings in a pile, and began to sketch onto the canvas a vision of a golden man, surrounded with a blazing, fiery light. He filled his palette with yellows, oranges, and reds, and worked in a fury of passion through the night. Stroke after stroke curled gently around the man’s ethereal form, and he could not sleep, he could only labor on.

The sun rose on Grantaire’s final paint strokes, finishing a perfect curl atop the figure’s head. He stood back, taking in every detail of his work, and signed it with an “R”. He rarely signed his work, rarely deemed any of it worthy of leaving the dull walls of his flat, but this was something else entirely. He gazed at the square of light among the damp, and smiled. 

“Apollo.” He spoke aloud in reverence, “ _that_ is your name.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello there!  
> thank you for reading! this fic has been waiting for literally years to see the light, and i think i'm glad it finally has!  
> my tumblr is waltswhits if you'd like to follow, but it's very rarely les mis.


End file.
